


survival thing

by bastardbones



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Age Difference, Animal Death, Assisted Suicide, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Attempted Sexual Assault, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Conditioning, Existentialism, Flashbacks, Gender Dysphoria, It's a bird, Language Barrier, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Menstruation, Mercy Killing, Needles, POV Second Person, Pining, Pining Keith (Voltron), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prisoner of War, Sexual Tension, Starvation, Trans Shiro (Voltron), Vomiting, keith is in love with shiro, lotor is in love with shiro's arm, shiro wants to die
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-03-06 22:33:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13421013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bastardbones/pseuds/bastardbones
Summary: In the aftermath of Voltron's battle with Zarkon, Shiro is reintroduced to life as a warrior-prisoner. Surrounded by disease, bloodshed, and perversions, staying alive is as precarious as ever. Killing will delay his demise.At least, this is what his right arm says.





	survival thing

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be a one-shot, but I've decided to split the story into two parts. Part one is Sheith-centric, but the remainder will be Shotor.
> 
> Anyway, I hope this hurts you. Enjoy your pain boner.

**i.**

 

Killing isn’t the hard part.

You remember the distinct sound of bones exhausting beneath your foot, a crunch that was elongated by determination turned hesitation, the awareness of your action sickening you to a near halt.

You were seven years old, climbing trees to find a good vantage point as you scouted the playground with your binoculars, when you spotted the helpless twitching of something, several yards down. It was flightless, wounded, appearing very much un-alive - the wind caused a trembling of its feathers, an illusion of movement - yet upon closer inspection, pearl-black eyes blinked back with pain. The creature (the bird, rather) struggled until it seemed to struggle no more. You had retrieved a stick to gently prod, too anxious to touch, to step closer, but hopeful it might survive. The response was faint; still alive, yes, but doomed to succumb to a slow death. You waited for minutes and then some, your bent-over position compromising the circulation of your legs, and so you stood. Abandoning it wasn’t an option.

No one should have to die alone.

(Except it wouldn’t die - refusing, relentless, existing despite it all.)

It was a mercy killing. Your weight crushed the bones, a pronounced squelch of guts and organs defining the terrible moment of execution. You felt it die.

Killing is simple. Your hand had been forced once, then twice, until soon you were a repeat offender, desensitized to the gravity of your debauched humanity, guilty of the worst sin.

You are ripped from sleep, a loud noise startling you into consciousness, not having enough time to wipe your eyes before being faced with a fellow prisoner unloading the contents of their stomach onto the damp floor. They tremble violently, heaving out the bile with a _splat_ , secluded in the far corner of the cell as if to privatize their struggle. Paternity strikes, an overwhelming urge to assist the alien - undoubtedly young - while they retch among an audience of indifferent onlookers. You are reminded of a pale-faced Keith, overworking himself with training drills only to fall limp in your arms, mumbling a classic _‘I’m fine’_ before passing out completely. He had spent the night vomiting into a toilet, shaking as he lurched toward with nothing else to expel. You made it your duty (as you often do) to see him through the ordeal, providing comfort with a firm hold on his shoulder. You offered a few encouraging words, wrestled his shirt off when he complained of the heat, then tied up his frizzy hair with an elastic band. You didn't overdo it, you hadn't coddled him, not even when tears stained his face and he grappled for your touch, like an infant seeking the solace of its mother. Keith didn't need to be babied.

As the alien laps up their own vomit, you find yourself turning away, as if the war nor your captivity have hardened you.

You vowed to never find yourself here, promised to mangle your tongue into a chewy mess and gag on the blood before the bastards made you their slave again. You were given no such opportunity. Your battle with Emperor Zarkon was inconclusive, you remember little but a sharp jolt and burst of light before it all crumpled to black. By the time your senses returned, you were in the belly of an enemy ship, pickled like a science experiment, and no amount of resistance could grant your freedom. You were shackled and marched off to a prisoner hold, and your body already knew the motions, having been subjected to such depravities before. Were they really so invested in you, or were you just a victim of happenstance, time and time again? Why hadn’t you simply died in an empty recess of space or in the crossfires of combat - honorably, instantaneously? Why were you always deprived of an easy death?

A muzzle has been strapped to your face as though you are a feral dog, prepared to strike. It is not fashioned for you, an empty space where a snout might belong, but it serves a function, making it impossible to bite. The muzzle is weighted, produced from a metal not found on Earth, but the only material you can think to compare. It is crosshatched with bars, a small prison for your mouth, and makes eating a difficult task. Your meals are scarce. Presently, your captors have been starving out your cell for days - or what you perceive to be days.

The passage of time is elusive, your internal calendar stopped working soon after you waved Galaxy Garrison goodbye, returning with the artificial days spent inside the Castle of Lions, only to be vanquished, yet again, by your second imprisonment. Your hair obeys time - the once buzzed length now grazing your shoulders - as do a series of abrasions along your left forearm, appearing much like tallies that might mark a cell wall, and so it seems your entire body is a calendar. If it were your choice, it wouldn’t be so long; you have entertained the thought of chopping it before a match, the only instance something sharp is bestowed upon you. Your Galra arm would not make the most eloquent of scissors, but the cut would be fatal, and so you wonder why it has been left untampered. Undoubtedly, it is part of you now, behaving like an organic limb, despite being horrifically robotic. If the arm is removable, you do not know, but you’re positive some device exists to neutralize it. If the Galra empire was so keen on rendering you weaponless, it is within their power to do so. Your teeth are not intimidating, you are not a carnivorous creature, what they are confining is not dangerous. It is your delayed realization the muzzle was never meant to restrain you, only humiliate.

“ _Blížiť sa_ ,” you hear. A recognizable phrase.

The exact translation you do not know, but you have come to understand which words are orders and you learn fast, pain a swift promise for disobedience. You are wise to not retaliate. Whether they have killed your spirit or you are merely saving your fight for the pit, is a question you have stopped asking. You have been trained - this is undebatable - like an animal, like a _dog._ They escort you from the cell, away from the stench of body odor, feces, and poke you with their pointy guns - you only scratch at your muzzle, as though disinterested. Your English is only utilized amongst your team members and your Japanese is useless on a planetary scale, growing weak with disuse. Your paladin armor had been endowed with an impressive feature, a language decoder that made communication possible with various species. You were able to hear aliens in perfect English, and they too could understand you in their respective lingo. It had proved invaluable on missions. The issue of a language barrier was near non-existent until now.

You resist the urge to cower as you hear a thousand intelligible shouts (and you're better off not knowing what they say).

As usual, you are handed a weapon by a voiceless sentry and you retrieve it with a calloused touch. Your right arm would do just fine, and often times you ditch your assigned weapon amidst the battle, as it becomes more burdensome than helpful. What they have given you today is akin to a mace, a blunt weapon that weighs down your shoulder - _much_ heavier than it appears and surprisingly formidable. Even with your surplus of technological strength, you predict it will become tiresome to hold. Once the adrenaline starts kicking, though, it will prove little inconvenience. You close your eyes and remember to breathe through your nose, counting as you exhale… 8… 7… 6… It is the small rituals that keep you sane.

Across the arena, you spot your opponent, appearing large despite the distance. You have a preference for fighting big enemies, because, somehow, it feels less personal to climb atop a giant's back than to slit the throat of someone your own size. _They're monsters_ , is what you often tell yourself. It's not true, though. You have fought gargantuan creatures that were more afraid of you than you were of them, swiveling between their stomping feet while you both prolonged the inevitable. Sometimes it is more merciful to kill them fast, but other times it feels proper to endure a full match, a fair chance for either to succeed. (You have never walked in with suicide on the mind, but surely, this remains an option.) Regardless of intent, you have persevered as a long-time victor and many fear you, the stories they hear involving your cunning tactics. They must find you crafty, but really, you're just making it up as you go.

You walk forward to face one another, a stride you often find relief in, only because it allows you to stretch your legs, smell different air. Everything else about it is horrifying. Thousands of strangers scream overhead, throwing their fists toward the ceiling with enthusiasm. You try not to mind them, or hate them, even though they gather for your potential demise. It's the debauchery of war that makes decent men participate in these festivities, and it would take only one to end them. You glance at the emperor’s chair and your heart gloats in his absence.

Where is Zarkon?

Your opponent roars as he nears you - a puny thing, perfect for ripping apart. A familiar alarm blares, beginning the match, and it is a sound that once drove you to blind panic. You’ve learned to smother that fear, control it. You crouch to a battle stance and study how he moves, for any patterns or weaknesses. You quickly notice a limp in his left leg and decide to exploit that.

He swings his weapon - a sword blunted by use, rusted by blood - and you roll forward to avoid decapitation. He is a hideous specimen, the face of a reptile and curling tail to match, lined with pulsating spikes that leak venom. You maintain a wary distance, careful not to be tripped or impaled. Deciding its purpose, you throw your mace at your opponent, who easily deflects it with a block of his sword, and in that split-second of preoccupation, you rush forward. His attack is delayed, striking the space you once occupied, and is surprised by you running the length of his blade. You jump up for a kick, aiming for his eyes, but are snatched mid-air. He squeezes your ankle in a bruising hold, dangling you like an ornament, before tossing you several yards across the arena. The crowd erupts with mixed emotions.

Your bodysuit barely classifies as armor. It does little to protect you and only worsens the abrasions along your ribs, where you have skidded to a halt. Your muzzle, however, saves you from a spitting out a row of teeth. You hiss, but don’t dwell on the pain, because your opponent is stomping over to finish the job. You brush your mess of hair away - which gets frustratingly tangled between your fingers - then scramble to stand. He comes at you with a series of quick jabs, nicking your flesh in the process, but fails to spill your guts. Frustrated, you grab the edge of his sword with your right arm, piling dirt behind your heels as you slow to a stop. With a growl, he yanks his weapon back, attempting to shake you loose, but your grip is iron. Your Galra arm illuminates as it sizzles the tip of the blade, the melting metal oozes down your forearm, dripping off your elbow and into a growing puddle. The heat is suffocating, warming your entire body and beading your forehead with sweat. Before you can render the sword to a useless stump, your opponent abandons it completely, allowing it to clatter to the ground. You kick up the mutilated weapon, the size of a dagger now, and are reminded of Keith.

The reptilian lashes out with a sudden burst of venom. It shoots from his tail, a dark jet of liquid that you block with your Galra arm. It curdles, but you feel nothing. A portion of it splashes down, where it burns and discolors the ground, implying fatality. That worries you, but you dismiss the emotion. Your ability to remain unfazed, despite crushing adversary, is what makes you so popular in the ring - on the flipside, it also made you a confident leader. Fear inspires courage.You lunge toward your opponent, sword (dagger?) in hand, then sink the searing metal into his weak leg. He cries out and you make an answering sound, sharing the anguish of the moment, hearing every vein pop, every capillary burst. The blade cools inside him, making the weapon difficult to retrieve, and although you would prefer to end the match here, rival immobilized, the Galra know only 'victory or death'.It is a simple policy, albeit extreme. Deciding there is no other option, you yank the blade back, despite the wrangling and begging of the reptile, unveiling the weapon with an obscene squelch. It is coated with black blood and remnants of muscle, appearing like an uncooked kabob. Your opponent dies of blood loss.

It is a cruel death, but a death nonetheless.

 

**ii.**

 

The bath is a bucket of cold water and a bundle of fabric meant to be used as a cleaning cloth. Sometimes, your baths consist of a quick stripping and traumatizing hose down, but today you have been granted the privilege of cleaning yourself. You lift the tattered shirt over your head, a discolored purple, then shed the bodysuit like a second skin. The water raises bumps on your flesh and you consider drinking it instead, imagining a cool slide of liquid healing your throat. You cup some in your palms then swallow it down - it's the cleanest water you’ve had in months. You indulge in several mouthfuls before returning to your task. You have been given no soap, sanitation being a commodity of the past. Still, you scrub at the drying blood on your face and wince as you finger comb through a matted section of your hair.

Footsteps echo throughout the chambers and you suppose a group of sentries are returning to escort you. Between the bars, what you observe is unusual. A tall alien (but certainly not the tallest you've seen) approaches your cell with a confident stride, a trail of white hair appearing most peculiar against lavender skin. You are reminded of Princess Allura. The alien appears of ambiguous gender, and it's a far-fetched concept for intergalactic life, the notion one must be either male or female, but rarely both or in between. Judging by the armor, the alien is of a rather high standing, and you recognize the symbol on the chest plate instantly. The colors are not that of a commander, but the uniform is Galra. You are beckoned with a cranning finger - _come hither_ \- and practice caution as you step closer. The alien extends their closed palm past the bars and into your territory, as if in offering. Perhaps this is an aristocrat and what they have is a gift, some present in exchange for your show of brutality. It is wishful thinking. This could be a test, or a trap, and here you are taking the bait. Absently, you remember Ulaz, your unpaid debt to him, and wonder if this could be your next savior.

The moment you're in proximity, a device is snapped against your neck and you stumble with a shout. It extends, forming a snug collar that is metallic, and glows in a familiar purple-pink hue. You try tearing it off, startled by its unknown purpose, but the alien is saying something you actually understand.

“I mean you no harm,” is what you hear. You cease your struggle, but the trembling continues. “Tell me, are my words decipherable?”

You haven't heard your native tongue since being recaptured, isolated by strange languages. Hearing your own pricks your eyes with tears, and inebriated with emotion, you merely nod.

“Good,” the alien says with a satisfied grin. “It is a communicator of my own invention, with the ability to translate a finite number of languages, including your own. English, yes?”

You nod again.

“Your battle cry is most enticing. I am curious, how does a warrior such as yourself speak?”

“I’m not a warrior,” you say, voice hoarse from neglect. They are your first words in this terrifying new life. You had forgotten what you sounded like aside from grunts and screams.

“Oh?” an amused curl of the lips, “then what do you consider yourself, pray tell?”

“I’m a prisoner of war,” you say plainly, concealing your bitterness. “Your race enslaved me. I live only to entertain now.”

“You believe me to be Galra?” the alien asks with a lazy lift of an eyebrow.

“I’ve seen enough Galra to know.”

“Your estimations are not incorrect. I am half Galra.” The purple skin is a dead giveaway, although the white hair leaves you uncertain. _Altean_ is your assumption, but that cannot possibly be true (and it is not your business to pry). The alien twirls a lock of blanched hair around a clawed finger - filed to a point - then hums, “You must despise me.”

“You’ve done nothing to me. Why should I hate you?”

“You hate other Galra, then?”

“Not really.”

“Why is that?”

“I’ve met very kind Galra. I’ve fought alongside them and I’ve seen their sacrifices. They’re a noble people.” You toss the rag and it lands with a splat. Uncaring of your nudity, you finally rise. “Your race isn’t evil.”

“You truly harbor no aggression, despite standing where you are?”

“It’s not the first time,” you confess. The stranger appears interested in that.

“Tell me your name, prisoner.”

“Shiro,” you say after a moment. You had nearly forgotten it. You are called false names, whispers of  _šampión_ familiar enough to decode, but are often eluded by the Galra vocabulary.

“Shiro,” the alien repeats. “It's meaning?”

“White.”

“Much like your hair,” he notes the peculiar streak, pushed to the right side of your face. “Well, perhaps earlier. You’ve missed a spot.”

The downsides of long hair: impractical in battle, easily stained, difficult to maintain… What you wouldn't do for an elastic band or piece of rope to tie it. Days after a fight, you'll discover brown flakes drifting from your head, or a collection beneath your nails. You have almost been slaughtered because of it, thrown down by a hard yank at your scalp - sometimes escape meant severing a strand, or several. You notice how uneven the stranger’s hair is, flipping locks a result of a sudden or dramatic cut, perhaps in the midst of battle. This raises more questions, but you lack the privilege to ask them.

“Yeah,” you needlessly agree. You blindly paw at your hair, meaning to focus on the white portion. You’re unsure why the alien lingers until they speak again.

“Your right arm is of Galra design. The maker?”

“A cruel woman,” you decide after a moment, and as though it heard, your arm stirs.

“May I touch it?” The request startles you. Your unease must be apparent because the alien apologizes, “Forgive me, I am not often graced by technology such as this. It appears to be exceptionally powerful. Is it detachable?”

“I’m not sure,” you say, still uncomfortable. It has become an integrated piece of you, the arm, and despite your efforts to accept this, your body and mind retaliate. The alien studies it with a lingering gaze.

“Are you afraid of it?” is the alien’s next question.

“I’m not sure,” you say again.

 

**iii.**

 

“Hey, Shiro,” Keith is saying, cleaning the sweat from his forehead with a quick swipe, “Can we talk after training?”

“Sure.” You remedy his empty hands with a toss of a matching staff. “Spar with me.”

Keith appears reluctant for a moment, apparently wanting some downtime for an intimate discussion, but catches the staff regardless. He bends at the knees, clutching his weapon with both hands as he anticipates your first move, which surprises you a little; several months ago he would have gone charging the moment he became armed. Not completely reckless, but you remind him foresight is key, and patience is paramount. You twirl your staff, cutting the air with a sharp sound, and Keith only smirks with a false show of combativity. He looks tired, like something is truly bothering him, and you have the feeling he doesn't intend to wipe the floor with your ass today. You almost call him out on it, but instead, begin circling him.  

“Are you messing with me?” Keith scoffs, careful eyes studying your form as you stalk him like prey. He offers no blind spots as he rotates along with your step.

“Just seeing where your head's at,” you tease. His expression changes, eyes flickering as he recalls whatever is on his mind. You got him.

You spring forward, almost catching him on the shoulder with a somewhat artificial swing of your staff. He blocks you with some effort, grunting as he knocks some distance between your bodies. You don't yield, swiping at his ankles to knock him off the ground, but he is quicker, leaping - quite remarkably - to jump on top your craned back, then land, untouched, behind you. You turn fast, spinning on your heel before he can smack your back and claim victory, and block his upcoming hit. Face to face now, you see the concentration slip from him again, but he hops back to keep away from your unpredictable hands.

“That was dirty,” he says with a narrowed gaze, appearing annoyed. You chuckle.

“I'm only mirroring my opponent.”

He runs at you with a shout, lifting his weapon for a devastating strike - despite injury not being the objective of a spar - and you ready yourself. What you plan to do is use his own inertia against him by dodging, but he surprises you when he flings himself with the aid of his staff, dizzying you, then mercilessly lands, toppling you both onto the floor, chests only separated by your wrestling weapons. Keith’s combat methods are rather up-close and personal, this much is true as his panting tickles your chin. You ignore the ache in your back, having fallen rather hard in addition to Keith's weight kindly crushing you. You should instruct him to be less rough during training, the thought of him handling Pidge - someone who is terribly small - in such a manner doesn't sit well with you. However, you realize he may reserve these behaviors for you and only you, confident you can take a beating, being that you are the one always pushing him. _Work harder_. You exhaust a lot of his time with personal sessions, because you cannot allow such potential to go untapped, and it's not as though you lack faith in the others. You see yourself in him, and it's a complicated realization that goes unspoken between you two. He is your student, your successor, your protege, and you have stacked him with an overwhelming burden in the likelihood of your departure. You toss him, throwing him beneath you as you continue the relentless clanking of your staffs, and he cries out, frustrated by the stalemate. Perhaps, you are the one who needs to be less rough during training.

You make a mental note of it.

“Yeah, Shiro, get ‘em!” Lance hollers from across the room, having finished up his respective exercises for the morning. Hunk is in tow, drinking the entirety of a nutrition pouch in one strong gulp, one hand on the drink, the other on Lance’s shoulder. He lifts an eyebrow at the troubling display you both embody, but says nothing. Lance appears delighted by the predicament. “Wow, you're losing so bad, Keith.”

“Shut _up_ , Lance!” Keith seethes. Lance only cackles.

“Ignore him,” you instruct. Keith grunts harder, finding it impossible to overcome you. He is disadvantaged, a head shorter and weighing much less, his body not the machine yours has been built to be. Sweat beads to the tip of your nose, threatening to drip, and you clear your throat of the sticky saliva that's built up. “Do you wanna call it even?”

“No!” he nearly shouts, pent-up irritation getting the better of him. You feel him use that negative energy to lift you an inch, but you collapse and close the space he could have used to wiggle free. His arms shake with over-exertion. You plan to continue like this until he tires himself out, and at this rate, it will only be another minute. You hope he will accept your proposal for a draw, but with his teammates watching, you can sense that sliver of pride consuming his judgment. Never is it your wish to embarrass him and so you ease off, allowing yourself to be batted away.

“What the hey?” Lance says, displeased by the turning tide. Keith is even less happy.

“What the hell, Shiro?” he fumes. You are both on your feet now, a yard away from each other. You hold your staff in a loose grip. “Stop going easy on me.”

“I'm not.”

“Bullshit!”

“No cursing,” you shoot back. Your teammates hate that rule, but you impose it anyhow. With a pissed-off grunt, Keith slams down his staff, where it clatters onto the spotless floor. “You forfeit?”

“Yeah, I _forfeit_ ,” he hisses, fists balled up with his rage. It is rather immature, but you make no comment on it, not wanting to fan the flame. Lance taunts him in a baby voice and you throw down your own weapon to keep them from butting heads. Hunk remains uninvolved and you're grateful for his neutrality.

“Shiro's babying you,” Lance sneers, retaining his stance even as Keith throws back for a punch. You grapple his right arm, knowing full well he won't actually do it, but must make your disapproval known. Keith shakes free of your hold, as if your touch had burned him, then stares you down before stomping off.

“He’s your teammate, not your punching bag.” Lance looks ashamed as you say that, and perhaps the wording is a bit extreme for a mere squabble, but you've grown weary of the bad blood within your team, namely between Keith and Lance. They're young, have opposing attitudes, and so they're bound to bicker. You try to be mindful of this, but it still peeves you on bad days.

“Sorry,” Lance murmurs, readily admitting to fault, intimidated by your hard glare and foreboding presence. Lance respects you - admires you - and tends to clam up whenever you are pointedly dissatisfied. It is no different now. You tell the two boys to shower and grab some lunch, then exit the training room to chase after Keith.

Your legs feel weightless and they move with ambition as you scan the neighboring hallways. You spot Pidge, glistening from a workout, an activity she adamantly despises but recognizes the importance of. Staying agile means staying alive. Typically, you train an hour longer than the rest of the team, often waking early, either plagued by nightmares or insomnia, clambering onto the ground to do push-ups in the solidarity of your room. The adrenaline high keeps you moving past the sleep deprivation, an existence balanced with carbs and exercise. It's a miracle you have not passed out from exhaustion in the midst of battle, always going, never resting, working on sheer will-power. It’s a torturous lifestyle.

You find Keith alone. He is sitting along a wall, head bowed between his shoulders, bangs hiding his face. His shirt has been discarded, lying in a damp pile by his feet, and it reminds you of how uncomfortable your own clothes feel, clinging to your skin with perspiration. You can hear his uneven breaths and they cease altogether as his head snaps in your direction. You raise both your hands in a simple gesture, much like you would with a startled animal, and stall your advancement toward him.

“I didn't mean to upset you,” you say, sincerity ringing in your tone, “I wasn't trying to… to ‘baby’ you.”

“You know, that's kinda what I wanted to talk to you about,” he sighs in defeat.

“What do you mean?”

“I'm 18. I'm an adult,” Keith says without looking to you. You lower your hands to your side and join him on the floor, but maintain a distance. Already, the air is growing tense, the telltale sign of an unpleasant conversation.

“Yes, you're technically an adult,” you say, agreeing with a slow nod, “but you're still very young, Keith.”

“Too young for you,” he says with a vacant look. Your heart forgets how to function for a moment, but belatedly resumes its beat.

“We're speaking hypothetically?” you ask as though you’ve missed the meaning. Playing dumb is your worst calling card.

“What do you think?” he growls, entirely bitter, but still avoiding eye contact. The most professional thing to do right now would be to walk away, avoid the topic, but you find yourself inching closer with a desire to console him.

“I had crushes when I was your age, sometimes on older people. After a few weeks or months, I would get over it.” You land a friendly punch on his shoulder, hoping he might lighten up, but his expression remains grim. “I always got over it.”

“I've felt this way for a long time,” he confesses in a solemn voice. “Since we first met.”

You remember the day you met Keith. He was 16 years old, a second-year cadet, and quite frankly, you were convinced he hated you. He did not disobey authority, not in the beginning, but his dislike for the high command was predominate during his time at Galaxy Garrison. You were an officer, shaped by your accomplishments and a favorite among the institution. Many cadets were starstruck in your presence, but Keith had seemed unfazed, saluted you with the same disposition he showed other commanders. Your peers had dismissed Keith as a thug, convinced he'd be another no name if he ever made it to graduation. You had gravitated toward him, fondness spurred over your shared qualities, and took him under your wing with a personal vow to continuously encourage his success. Truly, he had outshined you, but his merits were dimmed by disciplinary issues. _You're the only thing keeping him here_ , Iverson would say, completely serious, and it was an omen that haunted you. Kids like Keith never got a fair shot, growing up poor, being orphaned, and it was an injustice brushed under the rug at the Garrison. Once you had been declared dead in space, it was over for Keith, not two weeks later he had landed flat on his ass, forced to abandon his only chance of a future. Iverson always kept his word.

You imagine a teenage Keith pining after you, and although sweet without context, the realities of the situation have you stuck between _guilty_ and _uncomfortable_.

“I couldn't date someone your age,” you admit. “Besides, I’ve only ever thought of you as a friend. We're like brothers. You said that, remember?”

“It was simpler to say that,” he murmurs. His fingers pet the smooth flooring in a noncommittal motion, a small distraction from his thoughts. Finally, he looks to you. “You mean a lot to me, Shiro.”

“I know,” you say, and it's knowledge you'll carry to the grave. If you had done nothing else with your life, you had broken down the walls surrounding Keith Kogane. It is a privilege to get this close - the bond you share is often underestimated by the untrained eye. You pull him in for a hug, hoping to dispel the topic with a firm squeeze. “You mean a lot to me, too.”

Keith hugs you back with a kind of ferocity that transcends familial. He hugs you like a lover, face hidden in the crook of your neck, clawing at your t-shirt, desperate to close every gap. In your mind, it is over, the issue has been resolved, and this is the lie you tell yourself.

 

**iv.**

 

You are wearing a suit of blood. Most of it isn’t yours.

“There he stands!” the alien from before boasts as he nears you. You have assigned him as male, despite your lack of confirmation, the same way he might assume you are a man, despite seeing your naked body on several occasions - much like right now. He barely notes your genitalia or the perceptions associated with it, and you decide it is kind of funny, how intergalactic prison is the one place you can escape the turmoil of your dysphoria. Unbothered by his gaze, you finish scrubbing the blood from your chest. He leans against the bars of your cell, suspiciously casual, and beckons you near with a nod of his head. You obey, mindless, and allow him to inspect the metal caging your jaw. He taps the muzzle with a pointed finger, then tuts, “Your prowess is wasted on a peasant show.”

“I have no choice,” you say.

“It is cruel to derive entertainment from such a spectacle, yet the masses gather,” he hums, swiping a sliver of blood from the metal, allowing it to soak into his glove. The fabric darkens. “A mundane slaughter is matterless.”

“Are you saying watching people kill gets boring?” You can’t bite it down fast enough. The wet parts of your skin itch tremendously and the notion has you angry. The alien smirks.

“Anything can become tiresome,” he counters.

“Someone died.”

“Barbaric, I know,” he coos with feigned understanding, as though you two are the same. He draws his hand back, examining the blood on his finger with disinterest. “Fate did not claim you today. Rejoice, my friend.”

You wince. “We’re not friends.”

“Are you not friendly to Galra?” he asks in remembrance of your amiability, or at the very least, your neutrality towards his people. Wearily, you ask:

“What do you want from me?”

“Some idle conversation with a species unlike my own,” he answers with a click of his tongue. “Your kind is a rarity among the galaxies.”

“You’ve met other humans?”

“Is that the term?” it’s a rhetorical question. Dismissively, he says, “The Galra have no word for something so obscure.”

“The others that look like me, where are they?” you’re gripping the bars now, foregoing personal space as you question the alien. You have gone long - too long - without a trace of news concerning your team. Their current status is unknown to you. The shift in your tone stirs the sentries on duty, just yards away, but they remain mostly undisturbed. You thrill, “Please, tell me, I have to know!”

“An emotion,” he notes, grin widening. “Desperation suits you, Shiro.”

“They're my friends, I just need to know if they're alright.” It’s a thoughtless spill of information, but it’s hard to think strategically anymore. A lack of vitamins, maybe. “You must know something."

“I must?” he chuckles.

“You must know more than me. I never leave this place, all I know is _this_ cell and _that_ arena.” It is the life of a caged animal, condemned to boundaries, eating on a schedule, starved as punishment. You are deprived of knowledge, seeing only what the Galra want you to see, knowing only what the Galra want you to know. You are being conditioned. “What do the Galra say of the humans they’ve encountered?”

“Chatty now, are we?” he mocks. “Are your friends truly so important?”

“ _Yes._ ” You do not waver.

“It seems the Champion is not so heartless. I did like you better beneath the guise of a killer, yet my curiosity remains intact.” Suddenly, he asks. “Have you seen Voltron?”

You take a second to answer. “No,” you say.

“Never?” he presses. You share a hard stare before he swivels on his heel, beginning to pace the length of your cell. With a twitch of his mouth, he says, “Neither have I. No one has for quite some time. They say five beings from a planet, miraculously untouched by the empire, pilot the lions of Voltron. May I share a theory?”

You are silent.

“I believe a pilot is missing,” he shares, anyway. “Voltron cannot be formed in the absence of even one member. The question is, where has he gone?”

“Sucked into space,” you swallow.

“Without his lion?”

“Destroyed with him.” You’re a bad lair.

“That lion is as indestructible as the rest. Arguably, it is the most fundamental,” the alien explains, still pacing, heels clicking with every step. His presence is beginning to suffocate you, filling the room with a thick atmosphere of dread. You remain ignorant of his objective, of his interest in you, but the Voltron talk is certainly suspicious.

“How do you know the black lion’s not being piloted?” you ask with a tight chest. He stills.

“I never said black.”

Fuck.

“Have I discovered your secret?”

Piloting Black was a second chance. Back on Earth, you had been accused of error, a mission’s failure falling on your shoulders, along with the lives of two others. A waste of high-tech resources, a historic stain on Galaxy Garrison. You had trained relentlessly, had been hand-selected, and what an honor it was, to represent the institution on such a grand scale, to represent humanity and kick-start a new chapter of space exploration. That dream had been destroyed.

Black sang to you. You heard her voice and it was beautiful, how the two of you harmonized, cooperating as man and machine. The lions are sentient, though. They are sensitive, recognize a hot-shot over a worthy paladin, and gaining their respective is a feat of its own. Except, you had tricked her, convinced her you were a suitable pilot and fell short in your leadership position, which she iconically represented. Were you truly her counterpart?

“Who the hell are you?” you growl as he nears you. Before you stumble on your ass, he catches you by the collar, and with a simple tap, dismantles the communication device.

“That’s enough talking for today,” are the last comprehensible words you hear.

 

**v.**

 

You plunge air into the vial - 0.8 mL - and draw back until the thick substance replaces that same amount. It is artificial testosterone, created within the lab of the ship, and you have zero qualms about putting it inside your body. You began hormone replacement therapy when you were 18 and quietly purchased prescriptions from the onsite pharmacy of the Garrison. You once had little fear of needles, forgetting to wince as one a half inches sunk deep into your thigh, but being strapped down for experimentations meant the birth of a phobia. You bite into the collar of your shirt in an attempt to calm your nerves, unscrew the 14 gauge needle, discard it as toxic waste, then equip your syringe with a less intimidating 21 gauge. A sterile pad cleans and cools your left thigh, which you purposefully keep limp in preparation for the shot. You make a mental bullseye before uncertainty strikes, then leave an imprint by digging your thumb into the skin. With a long exhale, you jab the needle straight down, past your flesh, fat, and into the muscle. You pull back the plunger to inspect for blood, ensuring you haven't hit a vein or artery, then release the testosterone into your leg.

It's a slow shot, but the hard part is over. Your body reacts with a sensation, humming lowly as you introduce the hormone into your system, and it certainly doesn't qualify as a _buzz,_  but you're unsure what else to call it. You finish dispensing the yellow-ish substance, then pull the needle out with a soft grunt. The pin-like hole in your thigh leaks, but not terribly, so you decide not to bandage it. Already, your leg aches - it's a side effect you’ve grown accustomed to - and you pull your sweatpants around your waist before falling into bed. Without meaning to, you nod off.

You dream about your former captor, Commander Sendak, and the regular atrocities you witnessed upon his ship. You recall him collecting large sums of prisoners in the wake of galactic conquests, and consequently lacked rations. _Too many mouths to feed_ , you could imagine him saying, as if you had understood a single word during that first captivity. The shouting had startled you from a stupor and you watched as a handful of prisoners were selected for a cruel death. Sometimes it was a sentry, or a crew member, but occasionally it was Sendak himself ejecting living, breathing people into open space. Without gear, there was no chance for survival, and you saw it many times, naked bodies free floating - frozen. He had grabbed you once (randomly, you assume, as each prisoner was equally unimportant) and threatened you with an icy death, robotic arm impossible to escape, consuming your torso. He spoke in his alien gibberish and you just shook your head and wept, much like the others. You were weaker then, not yet endowed with your prosthetic, thin from prolonged starvation, easy to overcome.

He had tasted your tears with idle curiosity before exploring more - your jaw, your neck - as though planning to devour you. Retaliation would have been foolish, and so you endured the strange violation of your body. Within his personal quarters, Sendak had tossed you to the floor, where you scrambled for purchase, but attempted no escape. He had hovered over your clothed form, only to masturbate in your presence. He coaxed your mouth open, inviting you to guzzle down a spew of semen, and you swallowed it only because your stomach was so empty. He made no such advances in the future, and although relieving, it made your dispensability clear as day.

You're screaming.

“-iro? Shiro, what's wrong?” are the words muffled behind your bedroom door. It's Keith, you realize through the fog of your mind, and you struggle to answer, voice stolen by panic. He barges in and the lights awaken - an automatic function - to discover you hunched over in bed. He says your name again, wearing a concerned expression as he plops down beside you. You resist the urge to weep onto his shoulder, embarrassed enough about crying out in your sleep - loudly, no less. His tone is hushed as he reassures you. “Hey, it's alright.

“Yeah,” you agree, nearly intelligible.

“You scared me,” he admits with a solemn smile. He's wearing a t-shirt you don't recognize, perhaps bartered from a marketplace during an eventless travel. The colors are faded and an indecipherable logo decorates the center. The font appears retro _-_ the title of a video game? It is sleepwear, so you assume it must be late, because Keith rarely trucks around in cozy clothing. You feel guilty for being a noisy neighbor. Your quarters are the closest to Keith’s and despite how noise proof Allura claims the ship to be, he often comes running on your bad nights.

“Sorry,” you murmur, head hanging low.

“Don't apologize. It's not your fault.” He places a hand on your shoulder. You can't explain it, but that simple touch replenishes some sanity. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

You shake your head like a reclusive toddler.

“Do you want a distraction? We can play a game or something.” You consider this and nod. “ _Would you rather?_ ”

You peer up to give him a look - _are you serious?_

“It's stupid, but it's something,” he promises. “Come on, please?”

You shrug, indifferent to the activity.

“Okay, ready?” he asks, scooching closer. “ _Would you rather…_ eat only food goo for the rest of your life or an entire plate of scultrite cookies?”

“Uh…” You're actually not sure, but it’s just a hypothetical, so your answer hardly matters. “The cookies. Food goo isn't bad, but it gets boring.”

“Agreed. Your turn.”

“What you rather…” you aren't that imaginative, but grasp for something light-hearted, “be marooned on a planet with Hunk or Pidge?”

“How long?”

“A month,” you decide.

“Well, they're both geniuses, so I’d be in good hands either way,” is Keith's response. “Try a different one. Something hard to choose.”

“Voltron or the Blade of Marmora?” you ask, forgetting the prompt.

“Oh,” Keith breaths. “That is hard.” He bites his bottom lip in concentration, as though the answer is crucial. You’re ready to dismiss the question and propose something less daunting, but he perks up. “Blade of Marmora.”

“Really?” You're genuinely surprised. “Why?”

“I can be replaced. I might do more good with the Blade, anyway. As long as you were leading, I could make that choice.” This raises a million questions you never thought to ask: Keith's lack of self-confidence, his refusal to accept succession in the event of your absence, his cut-off behavior toward the rest of the team… He doesn't give you a chance, announcing, “My turn. Would you rather marry a stranger or never date anyone?”

“Well, if I marry them, they won't be a stranger anymore.”

“But you won’t know what kind of person they are. What if they're evil? You could hate them,” Keith says, playing devil’s advocate.

“Marriage is risky,” you say plainly. After more thought, you make a decision. “I guess I’d rather be alone.”

“Forever?” Keith asks.

“Forever,” you answer.

“How many people have you dated?” he asks suddenly. The question isn’t particularly invasive, but it triggers a warning in your head.

“No one,” you answer honestly.

“Why?”

“You know why.”

“No, I really don't,” his tone shifts authoritatively. It peeves you more than it should.

“Keith,” and you see him brace for it, because you have said it before, and here you are saying it again, “We’ve talked about this. You know we can’t be together-”

“Shiro, don’t,” he threatens between clenched teeth, fists curled, eyes hidden by bangs. The emotion rolls off him in waves only you can see, a dark energy engulfing him, otherworldly and decisively alien. It is the Galra side of him, the race that had captured and carefully mutilated your body. In the wake of your invasion, you had woken up strange, and you grow stranger still, noticing slight inconsistencies in your mannerisms, a difference in your posture, a poison in your veins, but perhaps this is on account for long-term trauma and the extra-terrestrial isn’t to blame. You're so used to blaming yourself.

“Please, don’t be upset.” You gently place your flesh hand on his shoulder just as it begins to tremble, the vibrations bounce against your skin, up your arm and to your heart, where you feel guiltiest for causing this anguish. You hear that first cry bubble up and your chest pangs. “Oh, Keith.”

“I know you feel it, too,” Keith starts, voice suddenly thick, “I know it’s not just me.”

“Don’t do this to me, buddy,” you say, trying to talk him down. You start rubbing circles on his upper back, fingers massaging the tense muscles with a circular motion, aiming to comfort him. Keith scoffs.

“You always do this. You talk to me like I’m some kind of kid.” You pause your ministrations, deeming them useless in Keith’s riled state. “I’m second in command, Shiro. We’re practically equals. You trust me to take orders, risk my life, save _your_ life, but as soon as it’s not life or death, it’s too adult for me?”

“It’s war, Keith. We don’t have a choice.”

“Yeah, if we had a choice, I guess you wouldn’t be leading a group of teenagers to their graves.”

“You think I don’t realize that?” you nearly shout. “If I could have picked my team, it wouldn’t be you four. All of you would be back home, safe.”

“There’s nothing for me on Earth!” Keith argues. “There’s nothing for either of us. We  _belong_ here. We work well together and you know it.”

“You deserve a better life than this,” you shake your head, as if in denial, as if what Keith has said isn’t true. However, it is the only truth you know. The two of you are vagrant souls, with no family to return to, having found a home in one another. Working and dying alongside him, as a comrade, as a brother, would be the kindest fate of any.

With an abrupt grab of your arm, Keith says, “Please, let me kiss you.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Once. Please.”

“No.”

“Shiro, nothing matters out here. Do you really think we’re dismantling an entire regime within our lifetimes? We’re all going to die. Whether that’s tomorrow or 10 years from now, I don’t know.” He intertwines his flesh fingers with your prosthetic ones, but you pull away. “What scares me most is dying and regretting everything I didn’t get a chance to do.”

“That won’t happen,” you promise. “We’re a team, we’ll protect each other.”

“You don’t have to give me the leader talk, it’s just us.”

“I’m being serious. I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you, alright?”

“You can’t promise that,” he protests.

“Look at me. I promise-”

“I love you,” he blurts. The silence is deafening. He says it again, “I love you. I know it’s not fair, but I had to tell you. It’s been killing me.”

You brush his bangs aside, thumb swiping his cheekbone. He stares at you with hopeful, glistening eyes, and the usual purple color appears black and blown. You tilt his chin up and his expression flickers with intoxication, inebriated by your touch. He is so taken by you. It only fuels your anxiety about entering a relationship with someone his age. His youth makes him pliable, easily influenced, and you could hurt him without ever meaning to. He is a guarded person, but trusts you relentlessly, and you suspect such devotion will lead him to ruin. The last thing you want to do is cause him unhappiness (and you are an unhappy soul, tainting what you touch). Your lips gently meet his forehead.  

“One kiss,” you say, echoing his earlier wish. You study his face, caught between agony and relief, and you wonder if what you’ve just done is cruel. It was meant to be a reassurance (with the smallest sliver of indulgence) but perhaps it’s a bit distressing, to have something almost-good be pulled away, then never again. He releases a shaky and unsure laugh, expelling his nerves in one long breath, as if on the edge of delirium. This is when you realize you have, indeed, made a mistake.

“I hate this,” Keith sobs in a rush of emotion. “You’re everything to me. Why is everything so messed up? What am I doing wrong?”

“I think it’s time we call it a night. I’ll walk you back to your room-”

“Stop brushing this off!”

“I’m not ‘brushing it off’. We’ve already discussed it. There’s nothing else to talk about, it’s done, you’re getting upset over nothing.”

“Did they rip out your heart and replace that, too?” You feel that like a slap in the face. He sounds grievous, mourning the person you use to be, saying, “You’ve changed, Shiro. After we’re done training, or finish a mission, you ignore me and everyone else. What happened to my best friend?”

“I’m trying to stay your best friend. Because that’s all we are, Keith. Friends.” At that, you stand. “Out,” you say with incredible heat, making your agitation known as you point to the door. You imagine that’s too harsh, kicking him out like that, sounding so forceful. As always, your soft spot for this kid wins out, will-power deflating as you witness that sweet face crumple into despair. Dropping to the ground, you place both hands on his knees, then gaze up with a gentle look. You sigh, “I’m sorry.”

Keith sniffles, wiping his nose with the end of a sleeve, then rests his forehead against yours. His breath ghosts your lips, but the smell is mysterious, the scents of foreign fruits and meats so unlike those on your home planet. The aroma isn’t quite pleasant, but it isn’t intolerable either, you decide, as you focus on it through closed lids. Another two minutes pass before Keith seems almost calm. His hands are resting on your own and you find no cause to pull away, enjoying the contact, the radiating warmth. You have not allowed many others to touch you, often flinching back with distrust or suspicion, a cold touch reminding you what it’s like to be a guinea pig.

“You can stay here,” you say, breaking the silence. “Just be up and out early - and I mean early.”

Keith just nods, does so quickly, then lifts his legs onto the bed, making a home for himself beneath the covers before you can change your mind. You shuffle in beside him, laying on your back as a corpse would, and it is a sleeping position you once found uncomfortable, but have discovered some benefit in, mainly for its appeal in preventing back pain. You’re training yourself out of stomach sleeping, which seems to be Keith’s default before he turns on his side to watch you through droopy eyes. Sensing a lack of movement, the lights automatically dim, then turn off completely, leaving you both bathed in darkness. You hear Keith murmur something, but it’s too quiet to catch as exhaustion carries you off.

Your internal clock tells you it’s about 4 A.M. (or rather, the space equivalent of that, times and schedules now a faux mandation) when you notice a weight beside you shift. The second thing you realize, with some vexation, is that you’re on your stomach, because old habits die hard. Already, you feel discomfort bloom along your lower back, and without meaning to, you hiss.

“Are you okay?” Keith asks, voice hushed. You can barely see him, squinting until your eyes adjust to the dark. He slides his hands along your right arm, but you don’t feel it, only sense it, because despite how impossibly advanced the prosthetic is, it lacks any nerve endings. The only occasion you feel _something_ in the arm is upon activation, rippling with a dark, possessive energy you’re too scared to mention out loud. It has the ability to experience pain, and albeit rare, the sensation is excruciating. It is appropriate, you decide. The Galra have done nothing but cause you misery.

“Don’t worry about it,” you manage through the croak in your voice, then bury your face into your half of the pillow.

“Where does it hurt?” Keith is too stubborn. Normally, you might resist that behavior, but drowsiness has your brain at a disadvantage, and so you redirect his hands from your robotic arm to the tender muscles in your back. Without much preamble, Keith begins massaging that general area, smoothing his palm down your clothed torso with long strokes, introducing his touch to the tendons. Steadily, he increases pressure, taking his time to burrow in with the meat of his thumb, then firmly stretches the skin away. Despite yourself, you moan, lost in how good it is. That stirs something inside Keith and you eventually become aware of a presence against your thigh, half-hard and unmistakable. Unbothered (and not wanting to embarrass him) you make no comment.

You’re deaf to the noises you make, pleasured hums and grunts that echo in the pervasive emptiness of the room. With each stroke, the soreness melts away, taking some of your conscious along with it. You are on the verge of passing out, balancing between awareness and a short coma, and so the soft kisses on your collarbone must be that of fiction. You lean into it, twisting onto your side and encouraging the attention, if only because you’re not thinking, only feeling, for the first time in a long time. A tongue slicks a line along your jaw, teasing the flesh in preparation for a supple hickey that sends a pleasant jolt to your groin. You roll your hips ever so slightly, then gasp as Keith’s teeth pull at your earlobe, before sucking hard and earning yet another noise from you. You don’t know what it is you want, but the fact you’re so desperate for anything right now would be alarming if you could muster the strength. Your shirt is being lifted, exposing you from the chest down, fabric rumpled beneath your armpits. In the dark, your damage is easy to miss, including the surgery scars beneath both your pectorals, two matching cuts.

You are overcome by a wet mouth on one of your nipples, saliva-coated tongue swirling in a rhythmic motion. Keith nips at the hardened nub, finally removing his hand from your back to grope the other side of your chest. You’ve always been sensitive there, but almost no one has had the opportunity to touch, save for a surgeon, Lance (jokingly), and now Keith, who takes his time admiring it with his soft lips and nimble fingers. Your continual purring has the younger man vocalizing his own pleasure, as well. The whimpers and groans from the two of you buzz quietly in the air, anything louder rebounding off the walls. You feel hard and wet simultaneously, and by adjusting your legs, notice a familiar slick that increases minutely, serving only to stain your underwear. Keith finishes with a pop, leaving your chest cold with spit and purple with love-bites.  

He finds your lips, cracked as they are with dehydration, and noses them as if asking for permission. In this moment, you are unfamiliar with the concept of consent and lay thoughtless as he decides his next move. Overflowing with affection, Keith closes the distance, causing you both to cry out in unspoken relief and gut-deep arousal. He clutches you by the waist, drawing you even closer as you wildly move against each other, Keith’s hair becoming messy and tangled as you run your hands through it, directionless. He whispers your name and it breaks the spell. You aren’t plagued by lethargy anymore, blood is coursing through you, awareness hitting all at once. You are making out with your underling, Keith Kogane, even after you’ve vowed to never let your relationship submerge into murky waters, no matter the temptation. You are supposed to be a mentor, a brother in arms, a close friend - all things strictly platonic. How could you be so careless?

You thought you were a strong man backed by resolution, but as Keith rakes his nails along your spine, you are not that.

“Please,” Keith begs in a hoarse voice, gasping for breathe between frantic kisses, as if both your lives depend on it. “Please, don’t stop.”

You’re not stopping, although you should be. _Just a little longer,_ is the deceitful thought beckoning you to continue. _Just let yourself have this,_ it coos. Your veins are electric, thrumming with a powerful desire, deciding every move before you make it. In the corner of your eye, you swear you can see your Galra arm illuminate a faint pink, in tune with the intensity of your emotions. _Just take it,_ that same voice says, _take, take, take._ You break into a cold sweat as the realization strikes you. Your arm is speaking.

Like an animal, you bite into his thrumming neck with a snarl, grinding against him to sate an atrocious hunger. He wails, encouraging the vicious sting of your canines with a wet call of your name. You have never seen him like this, stupid with lust, eager for anything you might give him - pain, pleasure, or both. His erection pokes your stomach, anxious for your touch, and you want him inside you, in your mouth, crying as he comes. You want to ride him until you’re dizzy, call off training for the day with a well-made excuse, just so you can fuck him some more. You want him so much because you know you can never have him.

“Takashi,” he sobs. His heart is overwhelmed - beating at a rabbits pace - and melts like a candle that is lit by your proximity. He is dewy beneath your palm, easy to mold into whatever you desire - it is why he is so good at taking orders, why he rarely questions your authority, why he’ll risk mutilation to please you.

“Oh, I know, baby,” you sooth, exhaling against his neck with a ghostly breathe, cooling the damp spot you’ve marked with your teeth. You’re not sure where this is coming from. A sexually repressed part of you, a visceral longing, and it seems that Keith was the one spark needed to ignite it. He shivers at the sound of your voice; a tone you’ve never used with anyone.

You’re kissing him again, forsaking oxygen to crush his lips with yours, sliding your tongue along his, making him shiver. He is twirling the drawstring of your sweatpants, pulling at it with a loose fist (this should have been your warning, but you are too fixated to notice). Cool fingertips slide beneath your waistband, groping, searching for that missing piece of you. The kissing stops, but the galaxy remains aligned.

“Shiro?” Keith squeaks as you snatch his wrist. He flinches, body jumping with alarm as you tear his hand away from your crotch. He stops breathing, eyes wide with panic, unblinking as he returns your stare in the darkness. A lie formulates: _the Galra castrated me… they disfigured my genitals... I really have changed._ The concept is horrifying, but not unrealistic. “I'm sorry, I didn’t know, I-”

“This was a mistake. _This was a mistake_ ,” you chant, nearing hysteria. You rip the blankets away and reach for Keith’s scrambling body. Every time you manage to grab him, he tears you away, horrified. You are relentless. “Get up, get out.”

“I didn't mean to-”

“Leave. Training starts in three hours. Go back to your quarters,” you are on autopilot, speaking in your authoritative tone as you attempt to physically remove him. He grunts, overwhelmed by your flexing muscles, and tears billow in the corners of his eyes. You ignore the way he whimpers as you hoist him up by the waist. He resists you, wrestling you, squirming all the way to the door.

“Shiro-”

“That's an order. _That is an order, Keith!”_ You do not recognize that voice - neither of you do. Keith cries freely, but you offer no sympathy. _He is a brat_ , your right arm pulsates, and you feel its heartbeat, _teach him a lesson._ Keith’s wrist creaks beneath your brutal hold.

“Ow! What is going on with you?” Keith yells, shriveling with pain and confusion. His purple eyes - his Galra eyes - beg for an explanation. “You're hurting me, Shiro.”

His wrist is wrapped during training. Lance makes a joke about him jerking off too hard, but it goes ignored by the rest of the team. In the evening, the gauze becomes loose and you see the edge of the bruise - purple and black, like you. At least it isn’t broken.

A week later, you fight Zarkon, then disappear with the tide of the war before ever apologizing to Keith. Bad timing, but your mistakes are your own. If you could go back, have just a moment with him, you would beg for forgiveness, kiss his feet in recognition of the hardships he has walked. Would he accept your apology? This is unimportant. He could spend the rest of his life being mad at you and your fondness wouldn't falter.  

Presently, your opponent is begging, bowing at your feet, hugging your legs, pleading for a painless death. The audience boos with displeasure, loathing the easy kills, the mercy killings, and you are the grim reaper among it all. Its words are garbled and choppy, and you are disturbed by how many you can translate. Words like _please_ and _help_ and _kill_. You want to vocalize there is no painless death you can possibly grant them, you lack the tools, your arm is a machine made for violent acts, but have no such verbal eloquence. In their tongue, you say, _sorry._

You pierce their heart with devastating speed. Your arm glows with satisfaction.

Your audience is less satisfied, directing their anger toward you, dispising such a short and boring show. There will be other matches, but it is no secret most gather for yours, amused by the human (and former pilot of Voltron, no less) being made to bark and piss under the volition of the Galra Empire. You stare at them blankly, any urge to yell back long quelled by your dwindling humanity. They have robbed the human from you. You are a beast like any other, and what they see now barely reflects their creation, birthed by malice and bloodshed. You are a very different thing on the inside.

 _Eat the heart_ , your arm says.

You have not eaten in many days. Your current diet is murky water and it makes your stomach weak. You have been faced with the dilemma of catching an illness to avoid dehydration, or avoiding the sickness to succumb without water - die now or die later. A few dozen prisoners have had an unlucky draw and collapsed to their fate. Some have been cannibalized and the plague has only spread from there. Despite how unappetizing these thoughts are, you find yourself famished.

You eat the heart.

They love you.

**Author's Note:**

> I worry it went unnoticed, so I'd like to point out that Sendak ejecting prisoners into space is an intentional callback of his own demise (courtesy of Shiro). Payback is a bitch. 
> 
> I also wanted to focus on the canonical age gap between Shiro and Keith. The aim was to make it a little uncomfortable. Shiro stumbles between viewing Keith as an adult/child and lover/friend. I tried to write Keith in all these positions, making the distinction difficult to place. Their relationship is complicated.
> 
> You're welcome to yell at me here:  
> https://twitter.com/bastardbones


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